Tiger tiger
by Hunting Osprey
Summary: Scenes from a life inspired by William Blakes poem Tiger, tiger. Takes place before and after my story "Windows on the soul"


_TIGER, tiger, burning bright_  
_In the forests of the night,_  
_What immortal hand or eye_  
_Could frame thy fearful symmetry? _

He dazzled, he smouldered, and he burnt a few of them with his fire. Oh yes here a long way from any where he had ever called home he didn't bother to hide the fire that burnt him from the inside, he used it, let if ripple around him like a hunters camouflage. Here in the murky edges of civilisation he stalked the dark like the predator he was, wearing so many different masks, playing so many different roles that possible only Primus himself could have told the assumed personality from the real one.

_In what distant deeps or skies_  
_Burnt the fire of thine eyes?_  
_On what wings dare he aspire?_  
_What the hand dare seize the fire?_

_I shouldn't have come here,_ was his first thought on looking up between the torn spires and catching a glimpse of the glories of the night sky _he loved this view, and I loved to fly in it. Fly so high I appeared one of his stars, so high that the differences down there didn't matter. Pushing myself further and further, aspiring to be the best at what I did, like my mate. To go high enough that the air was so cold it burnt my intakes and froze my armour, I knew he'd feel like a living flame against super cooled plates when I finally came back to ground and he'd come sauntering out and hold me close. _ He pushed the painful thoughts of his past aside and carried on delving through the rubble red optics blazing in the night, looking for anything that he could use to stay alive one more cycle.

_And what shoulder and what art_  
_Could twist the sinews of thy heart?_  
_And when thy heart began to beat,_  
_What dread hand and what dread feet?_

"…online anytime soon?" a voice buzzed just at the edge of hearing, he hurt, every wire and joint felt molten, every beat of his pump was raw agony. He tried to power up his optics and was met with nothing, panic griped him and he thrashes weakly.

"Prowl!" His voice sounded different, deeper more resonant.

"Easy Jazz, I'm here." Prowl's voice whispered in an audio "Relax, we're… safe," tone going urgent "for now anyway. Let me do the talking, play along with me."

He slumped back on the berth, trying to cope with the overwhelmingly odd feelings flooding his CPU, listening with half an audio to Prowl talk to a series of mechs and femmes. He felt _wrong_, much too heavy and thinner? It was too much for his stressed system to cope with and he slipped offline promising himself he'd work it out when he came back up.

_What the hammer? what the chain?_  
_In what furnace was thy brain?_  
_What the anvil? What dread grasp_  
_Dare its deadly terrors clasp?_

"A ground runner?" he could hear the shock and horror in his voice "Ya made me into a Primus Damn Ground Pounder!"

"There was no other choice Swift, like it or not we're Autobots now and they didn't have that many fliers that a new one could just appear." Prowl snapped, he looked exhausted "At least this way we still have a shot at revenge, unless that no longer matters?"

He thought about it for a long moment, the fire that had laid banked while he made the long climb back to full health erupted again "No, it matters. Now more than ever finishing him matters."

Prowl nodded looked round swiftly and whispered "I'll start planning then, Swift you're going to have to master that body, you're the warrior not me."

He nodded sharply "I know, time ta find out just how good I am on the ground I guess." He fingered the strip of blue glass that ran across his face "One side benefit no mech can tell where I'm actually lookin' with this."

Prowl's smile was as feral as his own "Good, we're going to need every advantage we can get."

_When the stars threw down their spears,_  
_And water'd heaven with their tears,_  
_Did He smile His work to see?_  
_Did He who made the lamb make thee?_

It was over, his mate was gone and his brother was dead. Not unfortunately at his hands but dead was dead, which raised a question. _What now? What the pit do I do with what I've made ma self over the vorn?_

He slipped away from the party, all the skill he'd once had in the air now flowing effortlessly into movement on the ground. _Is this what ya wanted me ta become?_ He asked the universe, _an' if so, why?_ He scrambled up a convenient rock fall to watch the last fires on Cybertron burn out and the cold glitter of stars regain the night. The noise of the party drifted up to him and he thought about how different he was from all of them, some still so innocent despite what the universe had thrown at them, some old and jaded almost immune to suffering. For the first time since the start of the war he was alone and without purpose, nothing to fight for, no old score to settle, no hope that one day his shattered bond would heal.

_Alone_ the thought rattled inside him and unnoticed, except by the cold glittering stars, the first tears he'd permitted himself since the start of the war fell, capturing the star light and creating for a moment a shining self contained mirror of the cosmos in each droplet.

_Tiger, tiger, burning bright_  
_In the forests of the night,_  
_What immortal hand or eye_  
_Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?_

He dazzled, he smouldered, and he burnt a few of them with his fire. Oh yes here a long way from any where he had ever called home he didn't bother to hide the fire that burnt him from the inside, he used it, let if ripple around him like a hunters camouflage. Here in the murky edges of civilisation he stalked the dark like the predator he was, wearing so many different masks, playing so many different roles that possible only Primus himself could have told the assumed personality from the real one. Wondering, hoping, longing for the day when his fire would set the forest he moved in alight and take him into the long night. Waiting with the patience of a hunter for his second death to claim him.


End file.
